


So Blessed

by FrancesHouseman



Series: Dreams and Fantasies [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean fantasizes about Sam. Just a little thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Blessed

 

 

It’s early, too early to get up. The dream lingers and Dean languishes in its last wisps as it lets him go. Sam’s presence lingers and it’s delicious. He rolls onto his stomach and pushes himself into the soft bed.

 

Dean dreams of flying, soaring across the endless blue skies that stretch horizon to horizon in their never-ending cross country drives. In the dreams he can jump from the ground and keep going like Superman, by force of will. It started when he was very young, before the fire, when he had a normal house and a normal staircase. Dean dreamed about flying down the stairs at first, hovering a few inches above the ground. He remembers standing at the top of the staircase and thinking that he could really do it, really fly. The dreams of soaring came later, when he had become completely enslaved by his forbidden desire for Sam. The dreams are guilt free and wonderful, Sam watching him from the ground, happy and in awe of Dean.

 

After Stanford, when Sam came back, Dean had started to dream of taking Sam with him. If Dean touches Sam in the dreams, even just the lightest touch of fingertips to fingertips, then Sam can fly too, by his side, and they soar together. The skies are always blue and fathomless. If there are clouds they are always high and white. Dean used to have vague worries about electricity lines and getting tangled but he never has, finding that he can easily evade them, and these worries have faded with time.

 

In the dream he has just woken from Dean was holding Sam against him, weightless. They rose from the ground slowly and steadily up and up through a stone tunnel with no end, the Impala parked beneath them, receding. The feeling of rising matching the rising elation and love welling in his chest, mirrored in Sam’s eyes.

 

The real Sam’s gaze is shrewd and it destroys Dean every day. Dean makes fun, dances around his crazy passion like a desperate clown, keeps his longing for Sam hidden. He flirts like a pro and charms women into bed with finesse. He’s a hustler and a player and he takes down werewolves before breakfast. Sam looks at Dean like he knows him, like he sees through the bravado, through the aggression, through the insecurities, underneath the denial and shame to the hallowed interior of Dean’s soul. It’s a temple, a vast holy space that resonates with Sam. Underneath all the layers Dean is devout, a quivering disciple on his knees, utterly, helplessly and always in love with his brother.

 

Dean grinds his hips and his hard length into the bed. His bladder is full but he’s so comfortable and he just wants to lie here and languish in fantasies of Sam for a while. He stopped fighting it a long time ago and now he embraces it, holds it sacred and tightly secret inside. At times like this he allows himself to rejoice in the ecstasy of yearning so strong that it leaves him helpless. Sam’s company is all that Dean wants from life. He needs it like he needs air and he feels so lucky, so blessed.

 

His beautiful brother. That a creature like Sam exists should be evidence in itself of God’s existence, and yet Sam is sin embodied. Dean believes that the hands that sometimes brush his skin are capable of anything, shaping worlds, squeezing the life out of mere mortals. His eyes and lips make Dean want to break down and beg for forgiveness. Sam’s presence makes Dean want to cry, makes him want to die softly, and he does, pretty much every day, never letting on.

 

Other people seem stupid and redundant in comparison. Dean has looked for something to love in other people but it’s like Sam is a different species: Dean’s species. Sam is perfection, or Dean’s perfection is Sam, reshaped to match Sam whenever he learns something new. He gathers his knowledge of Sam and tends it religiously, a keeper of ancient and sacred golden texts, Dean’s gospels and psalms. He knows Sam so well, so completely. Sam is Dean’s life, purpose and feverish religion.

 

He imagines touching Sam’s hair while he sleeps, touching his fingers against Sam’s lips. He imagines Sam waking and smiling, granting Dean access, letting Dean worship him. Dean groans and shoves both hands down to his cock, humping into them, moaning Sam’s name quietly into the pillow. He thinks about Sam’s eyes, his knowing look, and imagines falling into it, drowning. Dean is completely slain by Sam. He writhes on the bed and bites the pillow, almost there. This is where Dean languishes in agony and bliss. This is where he burns.

 

“Dean!” Sam’s up, calling him back, wanting Dean in his day.

 

“Coming!” and he is, arching and straining, slicking the sheets with his ritual offering to Sam.

  
  
  



End file.
